


Hive

by Rattle



Category: Stardew Valley (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Beekeeping, Bees, Everybody loves Sam, F/M, Freeform, Hallucinations, Horror Elements, Insecurities, Magic Realism, Masturbation, Multi, Pining, Polyamory, Psychosis, Samson the Well-endowed, Second Person, Sexual Tension, Threesome - F/M/M, Touch-Starved, Wet Dream, this header is lying to you
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-25 19:20:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30093882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rattle/pseuds/Rattle
Summary: Inherit a farm, learn beekeeping, fall in love, fall in love, cry yourself to sleep, cook some food, go clinically insane, or maybe it’s just magic, host a movie night, take tea with a shoggoth, or is he the town’s mayor, eat a sandwich, be in a sandwich. Just, you know, the usual.
Relationships: Emily & Female Player (Stardew Valley), Sam/Female Player (Stardew Valley), Sam/Sebastian (Stardew Valley), Sam/Sebastian/Female Player (Stardew Valley), Sebastian/Female Player (Stardew Valley)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 43





	1. Chapter 1

Sam loves a lot of things.

Sam loves his little brother. He loves lifting him up and daring to believe that Vincent will remember this better than all the times dad wasn’t there to lift him up. Sam loves to sneak up on him to blow raspberries against his shoulder or sbumble-poof-fuzzy-soft belly and hear him squeal and giggle and shriek. Sam loves to sit on the edge of Vincent’s bed and strum the strings of his guitar for him until Vincent falls asleep drooling a little, the tip of a tiny forefinger still pressing into the lacquered surface, because he’s been helping, see, holding it in place. 

Sam loves to remember things he’d forgotten earlier. It’s an amazing feeling when it occurs during the day. Although it doesn’t happen often, and that’s a bummer? Probably? Or not?

Sam loves music. He’s really not that picky. Even that panpipes thingie wasn’t too bad, and oh boy, this space movie he watched with Seb and that new girl, heh. The new girl. And Seb. And him. Panpipes. Confused. More confused by that third movie, though. 

Sam loves his best friend. Sebastian’s really, really cool, although sometimes it kinda feels like Sebastian himself doesn’t think so. On the days when Sebastian doesn’t love Sebastian, which occur quite often, Sam stubbornly loves him twice as hard. 

Sam loves his skateboard. Sometimes he hates it. When he loves his knees more than his skateboard. 

Sam loves his mum. Don’t tell her, though, come on, please, stop, she’s clingy and overprotective as it is and, ugh, sure mum, it’s me, I am, I’m your sweetest little big man yeah. 

Sam loves seeing acts of kindness. He doesn’t know how, but he can tell if they are genuine. And if they are, he feels better for hours. And if they’re not, it’s just… No, okay, NO.

Sam loves pizza. Sam loves to eat it hot, hissing, with cheese gooey and melty, when he can pullllll itttttttt. Sam loves to eat it cold for breakfast, loves finding a slice or two in the fridge in the morning and feeling elation because _o-oh, that’s right_ , _I have pizza, I forgot again_. Sam loves remembering where it came from. _Hold on, did she make it just for me it must be super hard to make pizza from scratch wow_

Sam loves thinking about random facts until his head is buzzing. Like how that one time the drummer of Torch Thirty, Brad, wrote a song about how much he envies the lead singer, Mickey and his talent (because everyone loves and worships Mickey, everyone always loves the lead singer, DUH) and how Brad would like to be him and is depressed that he isn’t, and it was a pretty cool song, and they started performing it live and even won an award for the record so, like, imagine Brad on his slick drum set, in the shadows, beating out this calm compound triple for Mickey singing a song written by Brad from Brad’s POV about how much Brad wants to be him, insane stuff, just mind-blowing in a way, you know, and also— 

Sam loves a whole lot of things. He doesn’t just _like_ them, he’s not _in love_ with them, he **loves** them. Some of them a little, some a lot. 

You open your eyes. 

For a moment you think of how improbably _a lot_ you love Sam. Thing is, you love Sebastian, too. Yes, even on the quite frequent days when Sebastian doesn’t love Sebastian. 

And then you think, hold on, what? Who the hell are these people? 

The bus is shaking, speed steady, ignoring the bumps. The sky is purple. You pass a sign, it says:

0 1 1 2 3 5 8 13 21 34 55 89 144 233 377 miles to Stardew Valley. 

Or maybe you didn’t pass anything. Maybe there was no sign. Maybe there is no bus. Maybe you’re not here. Wherever here is. 

You close your eyes and go back to sleep. Now your dream is purple too. 

*

It doesn’t even feel that real. It’s a mirage from childhood. 

A chunk of bread, not just any bread, it needs to be made from lean dough but with white whole-wheat flour, crusty on the outside, clouds on the inside. A generous smear of butter, but not just any butter, it needs to be fresh and soft, and homemade, and saltless, and not acidic at all. 

And finally, a thin layer of honey on top. Not just any honey, no-no. Buckwheat honey. Thick, solid, stubborn, filling, dark purple, nearly black, with the fragrance that takes you unawares even all on its own. Crystallized stars on the tip of your tongue, with the aftertaste that always feels so familiar but is impossible to pinpoint.

These three, together. Opening your mouth like a maw of madness, shoving it inside all in one go, and crying a little because of how incredibly, furiously amazing it tastes. 

So yes, this is the yummiest thing ever that comes from the countryside. And you’re going to make it one day. You’ll make it real. 

As life purposes go, this isn’t the worst. No smugness or panache in it. A good, decent, rational ambition. Sensible. You know how to make butter, and you know even more about baking, because stress-baking is a thing and stress is an old nemesis. You’ve been planning on killing it, but that was before you saw this hovel, and yet you still hope to, somehow. 

There’s just one problem. You know jackshit about beekeping. 

*

Maybe it was intuition, maybe something else. But there’s actually seven wooden hives on the property. One is abuzz. There was no life here for months, no life but them, because _he_ died a while ago. You have no idea how they survived the winter without assistance. Can domesticated bees just do that? With no food to be had, no care, no one protecting them from pests. 

The rest, though… You creep towards them, one by one, and peek inside, wincing beforehand, bracing yourself for pain, but there’s no need. You are greeted by the same morbid scene each time. Silence and rot, clumps of black wax, half-decomposed larvae and a handful of dried out dark bodies on the bottom, like dots of soot. 

Maybe, you think for a second, freezing in place, that one hive survived by eating all of the others. 

No, rationalize it. Rationalize it, come on. It’s impossible. Bees aren’t carnivores. That’s not how they function. Someone must have helped, or there was food to be had… somewhere nearby. Somehow. 

One box is not like the others. For instance, it’s big. Huge. Painted roof, frilly. Reminds you of a dollhouse. It looks inviting. Oh, you remember this one from a picture. It’s one of those unique hives you don’t need to open, you just place a large jar next to it, turn the tap and bam, honey. 

Shards of glass are scattered on the ground around it. 

There’s death and dirt inside of this one, too. 

It’s the first one you clean — right after you’re done cleaning the house. 

*

Buckwheat honey is very hard to make, logistics-wise. Especially for an amateur. Much easier to just let the bees roam free. No, you need to make sure there’s only one type of flowers available for as long as possible, preferably in a mile radius. 

Several acres of clutter, dilapidated sheds, untilled soil, weeds, weeds, weeds everywhere. You’re going to need to deal with this shit and plant as much buckwheat as possible. 

So bees only produce honey once a year.

But buckwheat itself is fine too. A harvest every couple of months. You can sell it, replant it, sell it. You can boil it and eat it. It goes well with caramelised onions, so you probably need to plant some onions, too. Ketchup also adds to this combo so you should plant some tomatoes, right? Know what, crumbled white cheese makes it even better, so maybe you should get some goats or a cow. And for these you’re gonna need… 

No, this ambition is an overkill. One day at a time, one thing at a time, or you’ll go insane. Onions, though. Onions you’ll handle. 

Lift the scythe, slide it, repeat. 

“Not. Going. Back. Not. Going. Back.” It’s like a chant you’ve composed, for determination. It’s working as long as your wrists are working. Which is not long, today. 

*

You need a library, asap. There was this odd object in a drawer that has a note attached to it, and the note says, “return to the library”. It’s a geode, maybe. Some sort of stone. 

You need other things, too. A general store, a post office. A reconnaissance, a friendly face or two. Stuffing _his_ notebook in one pocket and the stone into a backpack, you set out. 

The first person you meet is the nicest person you’ve ever met in your entire life, period. Her name is Emily, and she kisses your cheek, and holds your hand, and she tells you things no reasonable individual would ever tell a stranger. Things she believes in, things she aspires to stop hating, this one thing about her sister, these five things about her hobby. 

“So bees then.” 

You nod weakly, unsure of yourself, and of the world around you, and of reality. The only thing you’re sure of: everything hurts. Everything. Even muscles you didn’t know you had. Well now you know. Free education. 

“You’re going to need special protective gear. It needs to be white, because otherwise they might take you for a predator. Put on a brown suit, get mistaken for a bear, get eaten alive by bees, all that.” She smiles warmly. 

You didn’t know that. But you ask if she is able to make it, because no, you wouldn’t want to be eaten alive. 

“Sure I can. It’s just undyed cotton mostly, and I have loads of it. I won’t leave a single tiny hole, I promise.”

Emily names her price. It’s a bargain. It’s almost nothing, to be honest. 

“Be done in a week or two, and I’ll bring it over,” she assures you. “Come hang out at the Saloon sometime?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Yeah, I will.”

*

He’s standing on the grass opposite a tidy house, and staring into a stream. Unmoving, almost unblinking. You stop and stare at him in turn. There is something familiar about him, but you can’t quite place it. You’re absolutely sure you haven’t met him before. He turns, not just his head, all of him, all of that lanky body clad in black, and he catches you in the act of staring. 

“Hi,” you whisper and introduce yourself, because it’s too late to run away.

His name is Sebastian, and he used to sneak into your farm to smoke in peace, so… sorry (he’s not sorry, he should continue doing this, why not). No, he wasn’t the one who fed your bees, but maybe you should ask Linus? 

“So out of all the places you could live, you chose...” 

“Hey, you coming?” a voice from behind you. You spin around, both of you. A window’s open on the ground floor, and out of it, blinding, dazzling, warm, the sun shines, rays spreading all around. 

“Yeah, Sam!” Sebastian yells back, then turns to you. “Gotta go. Band practice.”

“Band? What kind of band?”

He looks defensive. “I’m on the synth, Sam plays the guitar… Right then, good luck with your… Whatever it is you’re doing with it.”

It smells of the sea. No time, you’ll get to it later. Right now: bees. 

*

You find a post office. It’s tiny, cold and stinks of desolation. Taking a seat at the desk near the scratched rotary phone, you open the notebook. There are names and numbers, all of them written in a pencil, some of them long erased, messily, in a haste, because, you guess, whoever was on the other end is there no longer. He outlived them, he erased their numbers, and now his would have been erased, too, if he’d had a phone. 

You find the right page after a while. It just says “call for bees” and next to it, a number. Not local. But not too far. 

They pick up after the first beep. Heh, _bee_ p. _He-he-he._ Who said that, who’s laughing?!

“Yes?”

You straighten up before speaking. “Uhm, hello, I’m calling about the bees?” 

“Yes, how many?”

The voice on the other end, it’s odd. Very loud, as if it’s speaking right into your ear, but you can’t really understand if it’s a man or a woman, or even their approximate age, or what that accent is, for the life of you.

“What?”

“How many?” 

“I’ve got...” you start but then change your mind. Would it be prudent to fill more than one or two? After all you’re not sure you’re able to handle a lot yet. And you have only one flow hive, the rest is terrifying boxes of potential pain and suffering. “Just one hive’s worth.”

“Will send them right away.”

And they hang up. Without naming the price, without asking for your name or address, without introducing themselves or describing the means and timeframe of delivery. You call back, assuming that the line just went dead, and it is dead, there is no signal at all. Then you stubbornly rotate the dial again, forefinger slightly shaking for some reason. A recorded message announces that this number does not exist. It’s in the same voice as that of the person you just talked to.

Must be a prank, or a misunderstanding, or… whatever it is, you still need to buy some bees. 

So you open a battered catalogue on the neighbouring desk, find the section, flip through it, gaze brushing past “Best butterworm, no fish could resist!” and “Ladybugs wholesale! Save your cucumbers TODAY!” and “Eighteen varieties of live butterflies: spruce up your celebration, surprise your significant other! We also pre-pierce them if you need them pre-dead”. Yoba almighty… You turn another page, wincing. 

Oh there it is, a happy little rectangle. “Honey bees and equipment. We deliver to your home.” Price range, company name, a phone number that’s somewhere in the Valley… Everything seems to be in order. You call, and a lady picks up, and introduces herself (you forget the name right away, it happens to you all the time), and asks for your name, address, means of payment, if you would like an insurance, if you need an expert to come and set up everything — for an additional price, of course. You take a few moments to consider this last one. Really not that many savings to invest… The thing you like most is to get clean, and that goddamn hovel doesn’t even have a bathroom, no bathtub, no shower, nothing, so you’ve put money away to immediately order one built. What remains is not much, and you need to eat. No, you’d have to rely on the library. And, according to the note, there is one. 

“Thanks,” you say. “Just the bees and a smoker.” 

The lady dictates the bank stuff, explains how to send a check and how to receive confirmation, and promises that if the postal services do not let both of you down, you should expect the delivery in two to three weeks, and then she assures you that the queen will come encased in a separate container from the rest, and that they’re very careful with that whole thing. Whatever that means, you have no idea why or how or what, you desperately need the library. 

*

The library is cold, too. But that’s what they are supposed to be. There’s a hall reserved for a local museum as well, allegedly, but it’s empty: dusty, slightly stained glass cases, not a single showpiece. Museum of what, exactly? You’re not sure. But the proprietor, Gunther, is dignified and helpful, and he points you to the shelf, right after you discover that there is already a library card with your name on it. 

Maybe they created one when you moved in. They seem like nice people. 

You remember the object and take it out, and put it onto a table. 

“Uh, sorry, I’m not sure what it is.”

“I see. Would you be willing to touch my tralala?” Gunther inquires pleasantly.

“What?!” You drop the backpack and turn. “What did you just say?”

His face is blurry. You blink, and blink again, through the sticky haze. 

“I said, would you be willing to let me take a closer look? If you do not mind.” He waits for your response, not even reaching for the object. He’s a very civil, calm and polite man. 

And you are probably going insane. Or maybe you just need some sleep. 

“A closer look? No, it’s yours. Maybe he wanted the museum to have this, I don’t know. Either way, I don’t need it.”

“Much obliged. Please… Feel free to check out any book you deem worthy. Good day.”

You check out two. One of the titles has “for beginners” in it, the other has “for complete idiots who are about to either get plunged into depths of despair unheard of or get railed in every hole like there’s no tomorrow while screaming I love you I love you please don’t stop oh god I love you so much I want to die in your arms and”. Hold on, no, it’s just one book you’ve checked out. “Beekeeping For Beginners: A Comprehensive Guide”, that’s the one. 

*

His eyes are blue. So blue. Like the clear summer sky’s come to live in them. 

“What happens if people don’t take good care of them, don’t feed them enough and all?” 

You stutter. That’s a good question, what does happen? You haven’t gotten to that chapter yet. Sebastian murmurs, voice barely audible, “They die.”

He might be right, you don’t know for sure, one hive survived, after all. This Linus said he had nothing to do with it, that the bees managed it all on their own, and then he gave you some leeks and a smile, and you gave him a can of tuna. And still.

“They leave,” you answer stubbornly. “They don’t need me as much as I need them.”

Sam looks a bit sad. “Oh. Bummer,” he says, looking down. 

You don’t really know him. It’s the second time you see them, both of them, and Sam’s just here to help Sebastian deliver stuff from the latter’s mother. She’s building a bathroom for you... You don’t know him, yet for some reason you feel compelled to reassure him. “I promise I’ll do my best to take good care of them.”

Sam smiles at you. It feels like a punch in the gut, this smile, it’s disarming, it robs you of breath. “Yeah I’m sure you will either way. You seem like a really good person.”

It’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to you in the last three years. You’re starved for more. 

"Sensible," Sebastian adds all of a sudden.

“Thanks,” you mutter. Inside, you weep. 

*

“So what do you do for a living?”

The two of you are alone together next to some unrecognizable ruined structure on the property. Sam went to wander around and touch things. 

“I’m a progr… Coder.” It feels like he’s acting defensive about it, too. Does he not like what he’s doing? “A decent one,” he adds a few moments later. 

Oh. It must be that whole rural prejudice thing. Computers are a mystery to them, and they don’t consider it work if the end result is not something one might touch and poke and wear and taste and kill someone with. 

You don’t know Sebastian either, but you feel compelled to reassure him, too. And this time you’re completely honest.

“Do you take cash? ‘Cause when I get rich on all that honey, I’ll hire you to make a beekeeping module.”

Sam barges in, freshly returned from looking around your cluttered yard, “Hold on, are these really a thing?”

“If not, they need to be. But, believe it or not, not many beekeepers know how to use computers.”

“I believe you,” Sebastian murmurs. You lock eyes. 

His are so beautiful, too, you’re mesmerized for a few seconds, as if you were an impressionable school girl. _Obsidian_ , you decide. 

Sam hugs you goodbye. He’s tall, taller than you, taller than Sebastian, and your nose momentarily pokes his chest, and you inhale paradise, and he lets go. 

He doesn't mean anything special by it, you think, it's just a word in a language that he speaks and many others don't. You speak it a little too, but you're not fluent, and there have been miscommunications in the past. So you don't allow yourself to cling to him for that additional second — or ten — that you crave. 

“See you soon?” Sebastian offers, waving his hand briefly. 

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

You've never been overly greedy. No need to hog the swings, let everyone experience the flight. No need to eat that second slice of cake, take it over to the nice receptionist who couldn’t make it from her desk to the office kitchen because she’s overworked and exhausted. No need to use your elbows to stubbornly push ahead to stand right below the stage, there’s other people who love the band more, you’re here for the music, and you can hear it from the back just fine. Greedy is for stock traders, secondhand dealers and middle class adults seized by food disorders, the same adults who used to be abused and neglected children and maybe, in their hearts, still are. Greedy is for people who completely lack creativity. Greedy is what your management used to be, with you and your fellows slaves as a lever to pull, to feed that greed. 

That’s what you used to think. That's what you’re used to thinking. After all, you’re moderately creative, you’re relatively kind, you’re conventionally empathetic, and you’re selfless. Right?.. Oh, and your parents are decent people. 

But you feel very greedy all of a sudden. 

And smug, why the hell are you so smug? Who the hell gave you a right to judge these people, any people? You’re a piece of shit, a nobody, a— 

There’s a sealed package on the porch. 

The package is buzzing. 

Fuck’s sake. 

*

It has no return address, so even if you survive and decide to complain, all you have is that phone number and an unaffiliated bank account id. Is it possible to find out the address this way? You think it’s possible. At the very least, to send them a bag of uncompostables and a strongly worded letter. Why did that lady say, two weeks? It’s been three days, three days of tilling and planting and reading up on parasites and pests and colony collapse. Why did she charge you for a smoker? There is not a single smoker in sight. And Emily is still working on your suit. Hell, she might have just begun cutting out the patterns, if she did begin anything at all. 

No one you know likes to get stung by bees. Maybe there are people with this specific fetish but it’s definitely not you. Your main fetishes are happy fulfilling relationships and affection, so you’re all outta luck, these are way too kinky to be attainable. 

You open the flow hive and stare into it for a while, not hearing the buzzing from so far away, but feeling it with your every nerve. 

“Not. Going. Back. Not. Going. Back.”

The book said that the honey bees are gentle and sweet, and they don’t sting if you don’t provoke them, if you don’t pretend to be a bear or a swarm of hive beetles or whatever. 

You swaddle yourself in every scrap of white you manage to find and put a transparent plastic bag over your head. 

Maybe the bees will laugh so hard they’ll forget to sting you. 

Then you take the package, a spray bottle filled with sugar water and a box cutter. Then you take heart for hope is fleeting. Hold on, what? 

You have no choice, you’ll have to put them in or Sebastian will be right and they’ll die. Except… there is no queen. Shivering, you look this way and that. She should be separate, what the hell, they told you she’d be in a separate package, because that’s just how it works, you know this now. Otherwise there is no point. 

But there is no queen. 

“What am I doing with my life, this is meaningless.” No one around to hear you, might as well speak the truths out loud. 

They themselves remind you of honey though, this dark thick mass streaming down as you pour it into the box, and for a moment your fear is gone, and there’s endearment, and tenderness, and then you get stung anyway. On the neck. 

You push on the brood box, fixing it in a place, and stumble away, scratching, clawing, pulling at the stinger, you trip over a stone and fall, and roll onto your back and… 

you’re wailing it hurts why does it hurt so much please help you’re not allergic you know you’re not you’ve had tests done you’ve been stung in the past oh dear god almighty how you wish someone would come and comfort you and hug you how you wish it was sebastian or sam ask your primary care sebastian if sam is right for you apply sam directly to the swelling and if your sam lasts for longer than four hours contact your sebastian

The sky is purple. 

The pain is gone. There’s barely any swelling. You get up and crumple the plastic bag in your fist. 

These bees will probably hate this fancy hive and then they’ll fly off because they have no queen. You’ve wasted money on them, and you’re a failure, and your life is shit, and there’s still no one around to wipe these pathetic tears off your cheeks, and no one will be there, and you drop your ghost costume at the house, and you think of how to word the request for a refund so it’s polite and snarling at the same time, and you cry a little more, and you go for a walk in the forest. 

*

You gather dandelions and wild herbs to make into a salad. This nice artist you just met, Leah, taught you how to identify a few edible ones and went back to her canvas. 

That’s when you encounter the painted cart. A shop on wheels that’s more like a coffin on wheels, frankly. 

“So you sell stuff,” you say to the woman running it, not looking at her but, instead, at the giant pig pulling said cart. The pig winks at you playfully. This was uncalled for, you think, and not very polite. 

“Sort of.”

“Quite a weird place to sell stuff,” you mutter, sweeping your arms in a wide gesture. Honestly, if this woman wanted to kill you and bury you in an extremely shallow grave under one of the nearest century-old pine trees, no one would even come this way to find you for days. It’s a goddamn forest. 

“Well you’re here,” she notes amiably. “This is how it usually is. My customers come to me. Wanna buy something?”

You really shouldn’t. But you do. 

It’s a disc player that you could connect to that surprisingly decent television set in your house, and a whole box of unlabeled movies.

“No gore on this, I promise. Bought it on a family garage sale,” she assures you. 

She must have paid ten times less than she’s requesting now, but what the hell, it’s still worth it. 

“Should be mostly foreign flicks, but I’ve been told they have subtitles.”

You tense. “Foreign as in, Gotoro foreign?” It feels important that they’re not. You’re really not an exemplary patriot, and you’re a pacifist, and war effort along with war bonds of which you’ve bought exactly zero, can go suck it, but it feels important, why does it feel important. 

“I doubt it. I doubt they make movies.”

*

It just sits there and stares at you, all wires and plugs and confusion. There’s only one person in town you know who could possibly help you. So you pretend it’s about installing the disc player, and not something else, although it definitely is about something else. 

He’s going to say no, you think. He’s going to look at you in that distinct and condescending way you used to look at your dad when the latter complained about not knowing how to plug in a stereo. 

“Sure,” Sebastian says instead. “So it’s like a movie night.”

You nod. He nods back and adds, “Might bring some company.”

He’s coming over with his girlfriend, you think. This will be a nice wake up call. 

You keep on planting buckwheat till Saturday, and eat dandelion salad, and go to bed exhausted, and black out, barely having any time to feel sorry for yourself, and the bees in the flow hive are still there. So if there is no queen, do they then hold elections or something?

On Saturday night, Sebastian comes over with a set of tools, a six pack of beer, and Sam. 

*

You only have one couch, it’s old and scabby and not too big, maybe only large enough for two, so you drag in a deckchair from the porch, and on it, you put the pillows from your bed so whoever sits on it doesn’t get a crick in the neck, at least. Sebastian sprawls himself on the deckchair the very next second, so that leaves the couch for you and Sam. 

“It’s a gamble, I guess.”

You pick a disc at random. 

It’s an old sci-fi action flick, and it’s abysmal. Not a comedy, far from it, everything is quite serious and dramatic. Good guy gone bad (in space!) and all that. 

At first, you think that maybe you should turn it off and try something else. But you’re snuggled so comfortably on the couch, warmth emanating from Sam and spilling onto you. And the beer is cold, and you don’t need to rush anywhere. The bees are sleeping. It’s too dark to keep on planting. 

“I do not want your apologies!” declares the man on the screen, raising a “space sword” that is so clearly made of plastic. “I want...” A dramatic pause, and Sebastian snorts into his beer quietly. “Reveeeeenge!”

“What,” Sam says, suddenly smiling ear to ear. 

Either way, this guy really doesn’t know how to wield a sword. 

It’s not like you’re an expert on locals but you’ve already met an interesting few, so you flex it. Maybe you’re pathetic. Who cares right now. “They should have hired Marlon as a weapons consultant.” But Sam nods emphatically in agreement, and Sebastian hides a smile, while seemingly just scratching the bridge of his _impossibly perfect_ nose. 

The hero proceeds to cut off limbs left and right, with fountains of fake blood hitting everything including the camera. 

Sam hisses at some point. “Is this fruit juice?” 

“I sure hope not!” you exclaim. “It’d be a goddamn waste of at least ten gallons of it. I think it’s paint.” Does this count as gore? You think not. 

“It is paint,” Sebastian assures him. 

Meanwhile, on the screen: ten extras flying around, unedited safety line, duels in space (no pressure suit, no weapons, only sheer awesomeness), soundtrack with… panpipes?! 

All of a sudden Sebastian whimpers, once again breaking his usual quiet poise. “This is so bad it’s amazing,” he states.

Minutes later, while the plot is unfolding (“Benji Threefingers, this snorgov worshipping heathen, and his army of gmlorkolans, all shall perish in the flames of my retribution!”) one of you chuckles awkwardly once more. Then another. Then (the hero stops a space shuttle by ramming his fist into its bumper, yes, _bumper_ ) Sam’s composure breaks completely, he jackknifes, snorting, and in a few moments all three of you are _howling_ with laughter. 

Cardboard sunset over the planet Alablarockh (thanks, subtitles). Crying menthol-induced tears, the hero says to his scantily clad lady-love who’s clinging to his chest and looking up at him in reverence, “Take heart! For hope... hope is fleeting!”

“Ouch, just like this bloke’s acting career,” Sam declares, wiping off real tears of mirth from his cheeks. His fingers are really long and elegant, you notice absentmindedly. So beautiful… He must be really good with that guitar… You wish he’d play for you...

Oh dear Yoba almighty, this greed. 

“Nice one.”

And it goes from there. From time to time, utilizing frequent dramatic pauses on screen, one of you is making short and snide remarks, and Sebastian soon proves himself to be the champion of snark. His real talent, though, is not the jokes themselves, but the completely detached and emotionless manner in which he shoots them out, one by one... 

There’s spilled kettle corn on the floor. 

Sam is oinking. 

**“So it has come to this! It is you and me now, Benji!”**

“...and my ruptured spleen.”

Sam drops his face into your sleeve, and _wails_. 

**“Or should I call you...”**

“...weirdly the best two hours of my life this year?”

The best two hours of your life, period. All the muscles around your mouth ache. It’s great. 

(tun-tun-tuuuun) **“Benjadaminus the Reviled, two-faced doppelganger of Khafazh?!”**

“...just please don’t call him to dinner at my house.”

The “epic” final battle has you and Sam cheering, clapping and whistling so loudly it would have woken up your neighbours if you had any; while Sebastian still nurses his beer and chuckles more at the two of you than at the screen, a tiny smile on his lips. 

“Yeeeeah! Pull that tentacle! Punch his gizzard! Punch iiiiiit!”

And you don’t quite know how, what with all the distractions, but you still notice Sebastian’s blushing. It’s such a contrast against improbably pale skin, this gentle pink on his smooth cheeks. It’s likely the beer, or the movie, or his effort at a continuous and rapid barrage of jokes, or all three.

“This was so much fun!” Sam announces, pulling his shoes back on.

“Yeah,” Sebastian says, fumbling for a pack of cigarettes in his pocket. “Should do it again sometime.”

“We absolutely should!” Sam hugs you again. Maybe you’re imagining things, but this one was a second longer. 

*

It’s maddeningly confusing, and for a bit your mind’s indecisiveness feels so absurd that you stop, abruptly, wet fingers withdrawing from between your legs, and shaking. Is this a joke? Is your mind playing a joke on you when it can’t decide which one of them to think about while you masturbate? 

You barely know anything about them, you don’t even know if they have girlfriends or if they’re maybe dating each other. But you’d like to. You’d like to learn everything about them. There’s nine discs left. You don’t know what’s on them. You want to learn that, too. 

So for the rest of it you think about both of them. You come in about twenty seconds, biting on the pillow that still holds the scent of Sebastian’s hair. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Keeping it ~canon technology-wise  
> *Barring some insane references, not our world. Sdv world, with some liberties.  
> *Thanks for reading, love ya, really. <3  
> *Oh, and yes, this is me shamelessly plugging my massive (and sappy) [original work](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29615940/chapters/72803796), maybe you’d be willing to check it out while you wait for the rest of this if you like my writing.


	2. Chapter 2

Sebastian hates a lot of things. Alright, maybe “hate” is too strong a word. They actually range from “causing a mild annoyance”, through “don’t like this one bit” and “want them to exist somewhere else and never enter my field of vision or knock on my door” right to “despise to the point of raging anxiety flaring up upon randomly emerging thoughts of them”. But for the sake of simplicity, let us call it all hate. 

People, he hates people and he hates crowds. He hates neglected, dusty and untuned pianos. He hates this town, and how everyone in it always seems so effortlessly happy. He hates how they’re all lying about it, and about everything, really. He hates when mum asks about his future and when is he going to get a real job. His future’s here, and his job is real, and he hates how they refuse to accept it. Although he hates capitalism, too. He hates corporations and he hates offices. He hates breakfast foods, what’s the deal with those. What’s the deal with breakfast, for crying out loud. Why shove protein and fat inside of you at the time of day when your stomach is still comatose. Hot and humid days, these are the worst. Current prices for gas, he detests those. The general store owner, and how greedy he is, and how loud his three little brats are. And so mean, even Vince doesn’t want to play with them. The mayor, that guy is creepy, creepier than Sebastian’s stepfather. When people smile at his half-sister, and compliment her, and ignore him, although he’s in the same room, screw that. How meaningless, pointless, directionless near everything feels. And sweets, he hates sweets. Normally. Although that peculiar black honey wasn’t too sweet or really that bad, hm.

Sebastian hates a lot of things. He doesn’t talk about them much, he doesn’t complain about them. He hates complaining. Sometimes he hates talking, too. With most people, he barely does it. He barely talks. 

But he doesn’t hate this. He doesn’t hate her. He certainly doesn’t hate Sam. And he doesn’t hate that precise idea. Which becomes even clearer as he bites into his left wrist so as not to moan too loudly. Then he cleans himself up, discards the used up paper tissues, tightens the cap of the lotion bottle, puts it safely away and goes back to work. Fast, almost mechanical, brutal, efficient. And still slightly puzzled. 

Sam is in his own room, and the window’s cracked a little, and the door is locked and barred for good measure, because “Sam dear, are you doing something bad in there?” what the hell mum no I’m not, and also how is this bad I’m nineteen and not eight but it’s not like he’ll say it out loud, ever, and everyone is mercifully asleep and he is doing one of the many things he loves: sitting sideways on his bed and pumping his fat cock slowly, with gusto, relishing each stroke. He loves to do it this way, for once not rushing anywhere until he inevitably is rushing, loves edging himself and thinking things. Imagining, maybe. Pity they’re not here, he’d love for one of them to find him like this and help him out a little instead of judging and turning away and running away like any normal person would. He’d love that, especially if there’s kissing involved, too. Must be nice to kiss through it, all of it, non-stop, just kissing-kissing-kissing, not a single breather. Sex must be nice, too, probably even nicer than this. Actually, he’d love for both of them to find him like this, and for a lot of things to follow. Except, not like a contest for attention or a rivalry, just… Tender. Together. Affection, overflowing. Like a pretty and not-too-neat braid. He’d love to come all over her. He’d love to come all over Sebastian, too. He’d absolutely love to come inside of them, ooh boy. He wouldn’t mind trying, doing that other thing, as well, from the third movie, although it’d confused him something awful because those characters were so unfriendly with each other initially, and at the end, too? What the hell, no, that one where they sold the studio and went their separate ways was ugh, just no, should not think about that, should think about... Sebastian smiling nervously, smoking nervously, with jittery fingers, alright see ya. That weird honey was delicious and didn’t look like honey, it looked like half-solidified molasses, and didn’t taste like honey, too, it tasted like untroubled dreams, wonder how she tastes. Mmm oh god, close, need to muffle it, need to bite into something probably, goddamn, bite into what, can’t stop now, faster. 

He doesn’t notice, doesn’t see, doesn’t know of this adorable blush, of the delicious way his long eyelashes flutter, of how his lower lip quivers slightly, but you do. You’d love to be there with him, and intertwine his long fingers with yours, and squeeze harder, together, let’s do it together, let me, please, oh damn you’re so big, Sam, and nuzzle his cheek, that fluff of a stubble, and look right into his eyes, your breaths intertwining, too, as his speeds up, feverish, as his throat turns scarlet, as his free hand fumbles for your thigh to grasp it almost painfully, oh honey girl are you really here, of course I am, you’re so delicious, Sam, so beautiful, please, please, won’t you let me feel you shake, let me taste you, let me kiss this moan off your lips, I’ll swallow it and keep it inside of me forever. Oh god, baby, gonna… come, need… quiet… to muffle... I think I’m gonna... scream, kiss me, kiss me now kissmnnnnnfff 

You’re in your room, too, maybe. You’re somewhere. You’re fetal. And time is moving in the wrong direction, or is it moving at all, or is it a bagel. 

You open your eyes, punch the alarm clock and start crying. 

Just five minutes. It’s allowed.

*

It’s been a little under two weeks. Still mountains of work to be done, but you are chipping away at the mess tirelessly, stubbornly, with the same chant on your lips. It’s since lost all meaning and turned into a mantra. 

_His_ bees, the ones that somehow survived the winter, are doing just fine. They have a queen and they are thriving. It’s warm, it’s springtime, there’s plenty of pollen everywhere, so they produce a lot. You’ve already procured one comb, and you feel like a cheat for it, because you barely had to do anything, it was there for the taking. It’s just wildflower honey, simple, boring, transparent, not too thick. Not too bad. 

Strictly speaking, it’s not allowed, but they have plenty left, you only took a tad. Not even enough to keep some for yourself. You sucked out a cellfull or two, chewed on a corner of the comb, then sold it all to Gus, the Saloon owner. He said he’s going to make barbecue glaze. 

Your own bees, though… 

By now you know that, although a colony needs a queen, for a time they can and will survive without her. 

According to the book, the end result is quite sad. Because it usually goes like this: worker bees, which are female, will collect pollen, they’ll make honey, and it will be in vain, a pointless endeavour. Because, with no one to fertilize the eggs, there won’t be any larvae but drone larvae. And drones are male and stingless, and helpless. Drones aren’t working, aren’t contributing, they just fuck the queen. Who is, in this case, missing. 

It’s a doom spiral into oblivion. No queen, no new worker bees — death. Not a colony collapse, not disaster, just slow fading into non-existence. 

It also says you can “rear a queen” which, as you assume by context, means creating your own out of an existing worker bee? Somehow? But the chapter on it is complete gibberish, a bunch of random letters stacked together, along with a few empty pages. Useless. 

They need a queen, you need to get one for them. 

But you don’t want to have any dealings with that happy little rectangle lady, she’s unreliable, she lied to you a few days ago when you finally mustered the courage to call back, she insisted that she’d sent the queen, and refused to refund you, and called you a bunch of bad words, and hung up. You dialed the others from the ancient catalogue. One has gone out of business a while ago, two and three do not sell queens separately for some reason. You’ve gotten another number from them, for a commercial apiary that allegedly does sell queens, but those are too far and do not deliver to the Valley at all. They said, well, we’re sorry, miss, maybe you should drive to the neighbouring villages and look for family-run apiaries, and ask around. 

But you don’t own a vehicle to drive, not even a bicycle, and the local bus is out of service, and the railway station looks abandoned, too. 

You feel sorry for the bees, and you will keep on looking. Maybe an expert would have immediately known what to do, but you are new to this. If nothing works… Well, at least their deaths won’t be violent. 

As it turns out, caring for them at this time of year is not such a hard thing to do, all in all. Everything in and around the property is in bloom, and no supplementary feeding is required. Barely any micromanagement needed, too. Varroa traps are empty, which is really good. Bees clean the house themselves, as well: there’s a dead body or two of one of their kin on the landing board every now and then. You sweep them off. 

And, according to the book, the answer to that one hive’s survival is simple and not cannibalistic at all: they just managed to store enough, and that’s it. You’ve been low-key calling them the Cannibal Gang for a few initial days. But once you learn the truth you rename them into Thrifty Gals. Anyway, the real challenge comes with the cold weather. 

To be completely honest, you haven’t even gotten to the related chapters yet, skipping through them, barely marking stuff for later. You are exhausted nearly constantly, and all of your muscles still ache, all the time, like they’re buzzing in the background of your perception. There’s so much to do, you tell yourself, it’s really not your fault that you hardly got enough time to read. 

You barely think about anything but work, but it’s fine. It’s gratifying, grounding and even calming in a way, not as anxiety-inducing as you expected it to be. Black out, get up, go back to work, see immediate results. Not too bad, a lot to look forward to. 

There’s one thing, one day you are looking forward to the most, and that’s next Friday, or the one after the next, unclear. Sebastian said that maybe they’d have time to come over for another movie night. 

Emily visits you almost every day, though. She still remembers _him_ , and fondly, and tells you stories, but you have none to offer in return. Emily knew him, and you didn’t. So you talk about the city instead, and how happy you were to get away, and things like this. She’d long completed your beekeeper suit, without even needing to take measurements. 

“It’s this talent I have,” she explains, and then accurately guesses your shoe size, too, and bows mockingly, beaming, as you clap. 

Emily is more familiar with the property than you are, and she shows you around, pointing out things that used to be, things that still somewhat are, things you might want to install and fix and replace and clean and plant. Seems like at least half of the villagers used to sneak into this farm. But she did not have to sneak in, she was repeatedly invited. And now you keep on inviting her. 

It started when you did come to the Saloon, on a Monday night of all nights. It was quiet and nearly empty. Emily brought you some noodles in a thick creamy sauce, then brought a mug of tea for herself because there were no other customers, and sat opposite you to drink it, and you ended up talking for several hours. You like her very much. 

She has a distinctive air of joie de vivre to her, it feels genuine and effortless, and you yearn to have some of it spill onto you. She’s neither ashamed of her own spirituality, nor judgemental of others’ lack of it. Quite unique. 

“Think relaxed. Think complete calmness. Think meditation,” she told you as she was explaining the ideal way in which bees need to be approached. “They are kind and docile, they do not want to sting you. They want to be your friends.”

It now seems like she wants the same, and so do you. 

At times you see her only to the gate. At times, holding Emily under the arm, you walk her back to her house. You don’t have to, but there’s an ulterior motive: she’s next door neighbours with Sam, and you’re starved for real sunlight. No luck so far. Still famished. 

Just this one time in the evening, though, yesterday, when that ground floor window was cracked, and you heard a guitar, just the guitar: a little mournful, a little broken, not sunny at all. And then: a shrill female voice summoning everyone to supper. And a wordless response: a string of fast, chaotic, flattened, exasperated chords. And then you kept on walking, blushing, panting, your heart bleeding, until you accidentally ended up on the beach and fixed your eyes upon the jetty for the first time. 

There were two men there at that hour: one old, sun-bleached and bearded, standing by a wooden shack and smoking a pipe, the other young and bronzed, with shiny luxuriant hair, sitting on the jetty’s edge and dipping his long and iridescent fishtail into the water. 

They both waved at you politely from afar, and you nodded back, turned around and walked away, not in the mood to make new acquaintances. 

Then you saw Sebastian again. 

You did bump into him a few times already. No, not bump into, that’s a lie. By now you know where he goes to stand and smoke each evening, and you sometimes go there, too. Not too often, so as not to seem like a creep (although, in a way, you so are). You don’t converse much, but he doesn’t seem to mind your presence. 

His presence, in turn, doesn’t sear you. It doesn’t make you feel like your heart and eyes are about to burst. But that doesn’t mean… The calm of a starry night as opposed to a warm, blinding daylight. The light but chilling breeze on your bare arms, a hiss, as opposed to a sunburn on the back of your neck, a shriek. 

He mentioned Sam and their band in passing. 

“So you and him...” you blurted out and trailed away immediately. 

“Friends,” he said, looking into the murky water. 

You’ve never met two best friends who were so drastically different from one another. 

You want the night, you want the day, you want the twilight inbetween, you want the sky, the sun, the stars, you want to stop feeling so greedy, you can’t you can’t you can’t you can’t. Which is why you are not getting either, of course. 

“I think this Friday works,” he told you as you were sitting on the grass by his feet, and you tossed your head up to look into his eyes. “Does it work for you?”

“Yes.” 

God yes. 

Upon returning home right after, you found two boxes on your porch. They had a return address, and a number of the happy little rectangle, and the name of that lady that let you down and called you names, and one of the packages was buzzing, too. The other held a brand new, shiny and enameled smoker, along with a complimentary bottle of fuel. The queen cage was packed separately and attached to the first box. 

It’s been exactly two and a half weeks. You went to get your suit, not understanding anything. 

This bunch you decided to name the Lying Skank Dummies, after what that lady called you over the phone. 

*

This was yesterday. 

Three hives, two queens now. The flow hive is still queenless, and you thought you’d come to terms with it, but you can’t. You won’t! You need to do something. You pray for a miracle, or a free bicycle, or an expert beekeeper. 

Instead, on your way to the library, you meet Clint. 

He’s burly, he reminds you of a bumblebee, there’s a constant blush on his chubby cheeks, and you’re certain he hates you with a burning passion. 

“Really nice that you’ve made friends with Emily,” he says in a tone that doesn’t match his words. “I wish I could make friends with her, but I’m just...”

“She’s really easy to talk to,” you assure him. Not because you care, but because it’s several hundred feet, and you feel like you need to maintain the conversation, seeing how he decided you’re walking together. 

Clint pouts. “I don’t know, doesn’t feel like it… She always ignores me, you know...”

“I do not, in fact, know shit.” You sigh. He ignores this. 

“I think it’s so unfair how the prettiest girls always go for jerks! I’m a nice guy once you get to know me, and she hasn’t even given me a single chance!”

You have no idea why he’s telling you this. He doesn’t seem to have any trouble talking to you, which probably means that you’re not pretty at all in his eyes, and thank Yoba for that. 

I’m him, you think suddenly, I’m like a full fat, full sugar version of him. Drooling over someone who barely knows anything about me, or whom I barely know anything about, being a thirsty creep, inventing reasons to… 

“Have you tried therapy?” you inquire. 

“Huh?”

“Therapy, you know. Or a support group. To overcome social anxiety and...”

He interrupts, “Do I look insane to you?! Therapy is for insane people!”

You’re really not so sure. Your mental health is fine, almost perfect, really, and yet you used to visit a therapist whenever you could afford him. It helps to talk through day-to-day stress with someone whose literal job is to assist you in dealing with it. 

Clint, meanwhile, continues ranting. “You’re really mean, you know that? Really mean! How could you even think… You’ll never get a man if you behave in this way!” he booms. 

You shrug. Somehow, you don’t care about his opinion at all, although you’re usually very sensitive to slander. 

“Then maybe I’ll get a woman. Maybe even Emily.”

He scoffs, and huffs, and you feel like maybe he’s about to punch you. Compared to him, you’re small enough to dodge it, probably. He just keeps on walking, and so do you. And yet you muse on the whole thing some more and decide that this was, indeed, a bit mean. They’re different here, they have a lot of preconceived notions, and you might have control issues which you need to curb. 

“Sorry,” you mutter after a moment. “Of course I am not saying you’re insane. This all was uncalled for and rude, I didn’t mean it.”

“Didn’t mean what?” he asks pleasantly. You turn to look at him. Clint is smiling brightly, waving his hand goodbye and disappearing into thin air gradually, until there’s not a trace of him left. 

You shrug again and traverse the last hundred feet to the bridge without any walking company. Better this way, really. But oh, what a lousy day. 

God, you hope that the librarian knows enough to at least point you in the right direction. Please, just… You don’t want them to die out like this. 

Surprisingly enough, Gunther seems happy to see you. He isn’t busy. 

“So good of you to come. I do apologize, miss, but before we proceed, may I ask something? It’s about the object you’ve brought.”

“Sure.”

He claps his hands together once and produces it from under the desk. It kinda looks like an egg, you think. Like a big, ugly… Hold on, it isn’t that ugly. It’s smooth and, in essence, aesthetically pleasing. It belongs in a museum. “Well now! I’ve had a look and even ventured into the city to have it x-rayed. And I daresay it is safe to... crack it.” 

“Crack it? So it is a geode?”

He nods curtly. “Indeed. A common one. Incidentally, would you agree to do it?”

He still speaks of it as if it’s your property. So unnecessarily cautious. It was never your property to begin with. 

“Really, it’s fine, do whatever you want, you can grind it into powder for all I care.”

He chuckles politely. “Oh, I see no need. Simply cracking it in two will be enough, although we should do it expertly!”

Instead of reaching for some tools or taking the geode to a work surface, he plunges it back into your hands. 

“The corresponding expert is just next door, and he’ll know what to do. It’s the only other building, improbable to miss. Would you do me a favour and visit him now? Seeing how there are visitors...”

A young lady, her back to you, presides over a class of five children in the library hall. Two of them are reading intently, one is picking his nose with wild abandon, as if he’s trying to reach his brain, two others soundlessly giggle over something in a story book. 

“Sure,” you repeat. “Be right back.”

It’s a smithy, and the chimney is huffing and puffing, indicating that there’s life and work inside. You open the front door and are greeted by a wave of pleasant heat and a voice. 

“Well, hi, hello there!” says the man behind the counter. You freeze, the door banging shut behind you. “Welcome! I’m Clint! You must be the new girl from that old farm.”

Yes, you want to say, yes, Clint, we’ve just met, and had something resembling a fight, and said some mean things to each other. But he acts like he’s seeing you for the first time so whatever, fresh start, maybe. You don’t mind. 

“Uhm, hi. There’s this geode I have… From Gunther. He said it needs to be cracked in half.”

Clint is already putting on gloves and reaching for a set of tools. “No problem, no problem, let’s do it straight away.”

He takes the stone from you carefully and mounts it on a neat work surface to take a better look. 

“Oh no-no, a chisel and a hammer would be way too crude for this pretty lady. Now this is a diamond saw,” he explains, pointing to an unfamiliar instrument. “Will make quick, beautiful work of this, cut it neatly in half. What I am going to do,” he continues explaining as if he was a dentist, “is to place it on this here carpenter's vise first...” 

He’s so friendly and you feel so bad, and you barely listen, thinking instead how, maybe, you should find a new therapist, just to discuss these anger bouts. Do they have therapists in the countryside? Is there even one in a three hundred mile radius? 

“All done!” Clint yells, awakening you from the stupor. “Oh, look, whomst do we have here?” 

The inside of the geode is neatly packed with shiny crystals, and the cross section looks very… yonic. Color and shape, very distinct. There is something latched in the central nook, though. It reminds you of a piece of amber, and its color appears to be in stark contrast with everything else. 

“It’s a girl!” Clint proclaims, detaching the amber object and showing it to you. Looks like a capsule of some sort. Warm to the touch. Not stone hard, hard as a lump of warm clay. And inside of it, clearly visible, curled up and pulsing like a heart, is an answer to your prayers. Not such a lousy day, after all. 

“This is great,” you say, feeling relief wash over you. “I really needed a queen. Now my bees won’t die.”

He gasps and places his warm calloused palm on your shoulder. 

“Oh my god, I’m so happy for you! It’s like you found an adoptive mum for them!” Clint says loudly, smiling ear to ear. He’s so overjoyed that you can’t help but smile back. 

“Kinda, yeah. Thank you, Clint.”

“Oh it’s no trouble, friend, please, don’t waste any time, you should go and introduce them! Tell you what, I’ll bring one half to Gunther, for the museum, and you can keep the other, yeah?”

You consider. The crystals are really shiny, sparkling. You yourself don’t need a paperweight, your house doesn’t even have a desk, but maybe it would make a nice gift. 

“Alright.”

He beams and helpfully holds the door open for you. What a nice guy, you think. 

*

So here goes nothing. You don’t have a spare cage and the one that arrived still holds the queen for the Lying Skanks, she needs to stay in it for a while, busy with chow you’ve placed in a tube for her to eat through and emerge into the hive on the other side, all the while releasing her pheromones into it until they start worshipping her. 

Maybe the capsule can act as a cage in and of itself, you squint and see that the queen’s already started slowly ingesting the goo in front of her tiny face, but you don’t want to risk it. You find the empty tuna can Linus has returned to you for some reason, punch holes in it with a knife. You cut yourself along the way, because all your knives are dull and not yours, really, but that’s okay. You smear the blood on the can and continue working, then tear off a few chunks of duct tape with your teeth, put on your trusty suit… 

It will have to do. 

Better than nothing. 

It’s certainly better than no queen, you decide on your way back to the porch.

“For a second there I thought you were a ghost,” a familiar voice says from behind you.

You chuckle nervously, unzipping and lifting the veil and turning to look at him. He’s so pale. 

“I do sometimes feel like one, Sebastian.”

After a pause he says, “So do I.” Then he lifts his hand and shows you what he brought. “Found this cord in my box of cords. Useless to me but would be a nice replacement for that taped one that came with your player.”

“Thank you.” 

You invite him inside, expecting him to replace it right away, but he is mesmerized by the half-geode on your rickety kitchen table.

“What’s this?” he asks, unblinking, spellbound.

“Just some pink amethyst, I think.”

Sebastian absent-mindedly places the cord on the table and reaches for the geode.

He gently traces the inner lines of it with his forefinger. You turn and stare at his lips. They’re dark and slightly open and, for what feels like a fraction of a second, Sebastian’s tongue darts out to lick over them. Your legs are jelly. 

“It’s… very beautiful,” he finally says in a quiet, husky voice. 

Not even a second, not even a second thought. “It’s yours,” you say. 

“Really?”

“Yes.”

It’s yours forever, Sebastian.

He squeezes the smooth outer surface, almost disbelievingly, and lifts the half carefully, as one would a fragile baby bird, and transfers it into the large front pocket of his hoodie. 

“Thanks,” Sebastian says, pressing his palm over it, then, with barely any hesitation, leans down and places a kiss upon your cheek. He’s gone the next minute, and you nearly trip over the suit as you wiggle out of it on your way to that brand new bathroom where you then orgasm thrice in a row, a mountain range, one peak below the other, plunging your fingers deep, nearly wailing, hungry, aching, insatiable, blacking out in the bathtub right after. 

*

It’s Tuesday. The tuna can is empty. 

And the flow hive has suddenly become the overflow hive, overnight. The knob appears to be broken, and thick, dark, nearly black honey with a purple tint is slowly leaking out of every crack and orifice. 

“What the fuck, what the fuuuuuuuuck!” you scream, running in circles and rummaging for each and every dusty jar you own, and then rushing to clean at least one before you get all the others. “What the fuck, you old fart, not a single decent mason jar?!”

*

You fill up five and a quarter, leaving plenty for the bees. Five jars of what is unmistakably buckwheat honey, although not a single one of the plants has reached even two inches in height yet. The quarter is for you. 

Now you need to sell the main haul, and your first stop is the general store. 

This guy that runs it, Pierre, is a greedy son of a bitch. His prices are insane, predatory, as if his pathetic little shop was a premium bodega permanently stuck at four am on a Saturday morning in an unregulated walled up neighbourhood filled with disco clubs. He offers so little for the honey that your eyes turn into saucers for a second. 

“It’s nothing but insect vomit, you know,” he announces, adjusting the spectacles on his crooked nose and making a disgusted face. 

You sigh and shake your head. Pierre and his wife Melissa have three children, and all three are below the age of ten, so you kind of understand his motivations. The children deserve a good life. It’s not their fault that their dad is a jerk and has a clear aversion to birth control, and also to smiling, and looking straight into his inetrlocutor’s eyes, and to brushing his teeth regularly, and—

Why are you acting so judgemental again? Who the hell gave you a right to be judgemental? What has this Pierre ever done to you personally? It’s not like you’re obligated to sell to him. 

You were never like this before. 

This has to stop.

In the end, with encouragement from Emily, you sell to Gus. He greets you like an old friend. The glaze, he says, was quite popular, and great with fish, too, every single drop gone by now, and with honey of this quality, Gus says, he’ll make something even yummier, and it will be enough for the whole town to try and appreciate. 

“Maybe one day you’ll be producing enough for us to team up and make mead! Real mead, brewed according to recipes that haven’t changed for centuries!” he daydreams out loud, smacks his lips and passes a large stack of singles and fives to you. 

“This is an amazing idea, Gus,” you answer, pocketing the money. It’s really not that much, all in all, but it feels like you’ve just earned a million. 

You are so happy. And it’s movie night soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, you're the best <3


	3. Chapter 3

You despise this hovel to the point of despair. It can’t be helped, you just do. You would have liked to feel affection for it. That would have been poetic, something out of a novel or a movie, to compare it to your city apartment and feel overwhelmed by positivity in comparison, but it’s impossible. It’s a hovel. There’s two initial rooms. One is a bedroom, or pretends to be. Well, it holds nothing but a bed and a trunk that still smells a little like lost hopes. The other is the TV room, the sitting room, the kitchenette, all in one. The furniture is ancient, rickety and makes a lot of sounds you do not care for. A wooden table, two chairs that hate your ass in both a literal and figurative sense, a couch that unfolds into a cot but better not... 

The roof is leaking, there’s black mold creeping in, the insulation is shit, wind is blowing through the cracks, and no amount of sweeping, scrubbing and washing seems to make the place cleaner. Insect life feels at home. You wish they were bees but they’re not. They aim to conquer the only nice place here, which is your shiny new bathroom. Every tile in it, a goddamn disco dance floor to them. Closing the tiny tinted window doesn’t help (why did you even say yes when Robin asked if you wanted a window?!). You keep finding moths, flies and mosquitoes in the bathroom. On Wednesday morning you find a cat. 

The tiny window is wide open. 

The cat is red and large but skinny, mangy looking. You like him. Bees probably like him, too, otherwise they would have stung him. But… 

“I’m sorry. I really… I have nothing to feed you with.” 

No canned tuna left. Your buzzing minifridge holds pickle brine, some wilting greens and half a turnip, and that’s it. 

The cat nods down and when you shake your head in confusion, sighs heavily and points his paw at what he’d brought and put beneath the bathtub. It’s a legit, swear to God, fat partridge, almost the size of your guest. Its neck is broken. 

“Oh. Thanks… Right, so... country life. Need to know where my food comes from and all that,” you say, and the cat nods in agreement. “Okay then. So what’s your name?”

He introduces himself. “Tau.”

Then he catches an insect mid-flight and eats it. Nice! Come to think of it, there’s fewer of them here today. 

“Pleased to meet you. Let’s do this shit, mister Tau, sir.” 

You feel like a monster even though the bird’s already dead. You’ve cut out plenty of chicken spines in your life. But this is different. Dear God, so different. First of all, ‘cause you need to pluck it. Then you need to singe what remains. And third… Supermarket chickens in the city came pre-packed and pre-gutted, and you honestly had no idea what their innards even looked like, or that there were half-formed, squishy miniscule eggs inside, attached to what must be the reproductive system, dear heavens! 

You nearly weep as you scoop it all out with your hand, and Tau places his paw on your wrist to help calm your nerves. You’re grateful for the support. What can you do, such is life in the country. 

Then he ravenously eats the liver. 

The rest is easy. You give some raw meat to Tau, then you give him the neck, too, because he went for it in the first place. You spatchcock the partridge and fry it on the double hot plate that serves as your stove, with a pathetic excuse of a honey glaze, but it’s still the best food you’ve eaten in days even though it’s dry (okay, got it, no more spatchcocking) and slightly gamey because you haven’t soaked it prior. 

“So are you staying?”

“Meh,” he answers indefinitely. Yeah, if the bathroom was the first room he saw, he might have assumed the rest was as nice. But it isn’t, and he knows this by now, hence — meh. 

“I get it. But I think you actually should. Stay here, that is.” Sure, he appears to be proud and independent, and can obviously provide for himself. But he might need some medical attention. Shelter, too. Even bees have roofs over their heads, he certainly deserves one. And company, that’s great as well. 

Also, as bad as you feel in admitting it, you really wouldn’t mind partridge for dinner. 

He seems to make up his mind once you’re both finished eating and you throw the bones into the compost bin: Tau cleans himself for a while and then settles for a nap on your bed. 

“Okay. Good to know,” you tell him. “The spicy flies are not for eating though, hehe.”

He doesn’t laugh or answer in any way, clearly unimpressed by your joke. Yeah, it’s an old one. He’s probably heard it before. 

*

So this bulky television set. 

It’s surprisingly nice and big, the old inhabitant must have wanted out, and TV was the only way until an alternative came round. 

You turn it on to look for the weather channel. Not having a magazine with the local TV programme you’ll have to flip through them. Currently it’s tuned to some occult pop bullshit. A lady clad in shawls and strings of large clanking beads (how original), with signet rings on nearly every finger, sits at an ornate desk with a crystal ball and a deck of scrying cards in front of her, and talks of how, this next weekend, those born under the star sign of the Sturgeon might encounter some stress related to sudden thoughts of their past, especially before bedtime. 

“Don’t hesitate to call this number for a personalized horoscope!” the moving sign at the bottom of the screen says. Followed, in much smaller letters, by price per minute (terrifyingly high even for a phone call to God) and some kind of a disclaimer that’s impossible to read. 

“I don’t often judge people for what they do… But what you do is not honest work at all. In fact it’s the definition of dishonest,” you say to the fortune teller. 

She stops talking about how those who are born under the star sign of the Shepherd are at risk of being discriminated against by retail workers this week, and purses her lips at you from the screen. “Honey, if it’s gonna be another hindsight bias rant or an equally worn out, old and boring confirmation bias rant...”

“I’m not going to rant,” you declare. “I would just like to point out that, first, the words you are using are too general. ‘Sometimes lacks energy to do important things right away’, ‘hesitates to ask for assistance from people he doesn’t know very well’, et cetera. Everyone is like this, everyone. But everyone also wants to belong, to be in control, and you exploit this. And, second, do you really think you can just divide the whole population by star signs, of which there are just fourteen, which makes the amount of each of...”

“That’s a rant,” she interrupts. “That’s a confirmation bias rant, for fuck’s sake. Like, the shittiest, most unimaginative variety of it.”

“I just find that it is very dishonest how you profit off...”

“Think I’m not the real deal, huh?” she interrupts again. “Think that, unlike you, I’m a fucking fraud?”

“I did not say that.”

“Cause I could do a reading for you, honey, and free of charge, too, seeing how you’re broke as a joke, just watch me.” She dramatically presses two fingers to her temple and shuts her eyes. “Oooh I am searching the astral plane for answers now... Hold on, yes, I can see it… You’re in love with a young man... He is slightly bashful… beautiful eyes… beautiful hair… enticing scent… His name… his naaaaaame… Ooooh his name is shrouded in darkness… but it starts… it staaaaarts with… Yes! Yes, it definitely starts with an S! Aaaaand… aaaand… and he doesn’t love you back and never will! Ha-ha-ha!”

She cackles madly at her own dubious humor, throwing her head back, and her huge clip-on earrings are jingling mockingly. 

“Look, I’m not saying you don’t have a talent. All I’m saying is...”

She suddenly and very quickly transforms into Sam, and you choke on a word immediately upon seeing those angelic cheeks, that familiar cute grin tugging at the left side of his mouth, and those eyelashes… You inhale through gritted teeth. Dear God, those eyelashes, like miniature rays of sunshine... 

Thing is, it’s sloppy magic: only her body changes, the clothes stay the same, so the end result is, effectively, Sam in drag. And yet he looks gorgeous even like this, with the pink shawl complimenting his eyes in an especially glamorous way. Sam wears all that kitschy clothing and even the tacky jewelry much better than her, his visage almost makes this mess harmonious and pleasing to the eye, and you wonder if she knows. You wonder if she envies him. 

“Want me to lick your pussy while Seb eats your ass? Or we could mix it up, m?” he says in the fortune teller’s mocking voice, winks, then sticks out his tongue and wiggles it. Not cool! You shake your head at the TV screen, frowning. 

“Cut it out, lady, I know you’re not him. You’re not debating in good faith. And yes, of course I do.”

What kind of a girl wouldn’t want the limb-melting gratification of having two hot guys stick their mouths and tongues between her legs? You would have wanted that even if you weren’t head over heels for said two guys, even if you didn’t firmly believe you’d actually faint if one of those two simply embraced and kissed you deeply, with unfeigned affection. 

She does not, unfortunately, cut “it” out. 

“How about our cocks? I’m packing a lotta meat, you know. Seb’s also not too tiny. A filthy and obedient whore that you are, I think you’d manage to endure both in your cunt together without too much whining. Or would you rather we...”

This hurts. Sam’s gentle lips forming these words... Hurts. Although it’s not his voice. His real voice is kind and bright and friendly and a little husky, and he would never call you… this. Right? Your face must be visibly drawn with pain and sorrow and, surprisingly, she relents, shuts up and transforms back. Probably because you look so pitiful that she’s no longer enjoying the prank. 

Feels like your eyes are tearing up a bit, too. And she’s not a monster, after all. She just got defensive and wanted to play you for a bit. 

Why did you start this again, anyway?.. Are you trying to single-handedly convince all the greedy people in the country to change their ways? Aren’t you one of them now?

“Ya seriously crying?!”

“So what if I am?” Naturally, you want them in that way, too, who wouldn’t. But that’s not the only thing you want. Not even the main thing you want. She knows this. “What you did and said was disgusting and, incidentally, still doesn’t disprove my point about you lying to your audience like this.”

“Whatever!”

“I still think this is exploiting impressionable people for money, sorry.”

“And exploiting bees the way you do is better how, exactly? They’re one and the same!” she suddenly yells, leaning forward. “Also the only reason you started all this shit with me, is ‘cause you wanted to be hurt! You’re a perpetual victim! And a hypocrite!”

You turn away for a second to wipe off a tear crawling down your cheek. 

“...for those gregarious individuals born under the sign of the Parrot, this friday along with the weekend will be quite promising in rega...”

You flip through the channels, check the weather for tomorrow, then turn the TV off. Enough conversations for today. Enough judgement. 

She’s objectively right about one thing, though: you **are** broke.

You could probably ask dad for help, but he’d imply you should go back, that this whole thing isn’t panning out… No. You are not going back. 

But your savings are gone and the only real, significant money you’ve gotten throughout these weeks was for those two liters (plus a comb) of honey you sold to Gus, and this cash has evaporated, too, because you’ve spent it on basic necessities, like the electricity bill. Also, from Marnie, the local cattle farmer, you’ve gotten vermifuge, a flea collar and some skin poultice for your new roommate, as well as a pair of five liter jars. That was the very last of the cash that you’ve given her. 

Which is why, when you wake up on Thursday morning and see that the flow hive’s inhabitants have filled said jars almost to the brim, you finally give them a name, too. 

The Not Going Back Brigade. 

*

“I know I probably shouldn’t tell you this because I’m in his employ,” Emily says in a confidential whisper while holding you under the arm, “and also because I like that sauce something awful, especially with fries, but you’re my friend and… Just between us, alright?”

“Of course.”

“Gus has been underpaying you. For the honey. I would have told you sooner, but I only just found out.”

“Hold on, really? I have no idea how much it actually costs.”

She sighs. “Honey of this quality? A lot. At least, a lot more than he is able to give you. I’m not saying you should confront him… He simply cannot pay more. I’m saying, maybe look for another buyer.”

“There aren’t others here. Pierre offered me three times less than Gus did.”

This town is as broke as you are. 

“Yeah, I remember,” she says as you stop in front of her house. “I’m saying, sell in a neighbouring town. A bigger one, preferably one with a store that offers locally grown organic food.”

You have no vehicle. The bus is out of service. It’s not an option. You tell her so. 

“I know someone with a vehicle.”

“You do?”

“Yes. And I think you know him, too.”

Afterwards, before heading home to change for her shift, Emily hugs you goodbye. It’s not the hug you crave, she is the wrong person, but it’s a human touch, so it will have to do. 

This time you sell to Gus again, because you need the money right this instant. But what she told you… It’s tempting. Almost as tempting as the aforementioned vehicle’s owner’s eyes. 

It’s noon. You linger at one of the tables in the empty establishment, pondering, when the young man from the jetty, the one with great hair, enters and asks for a cup of coffee, one sugar, no milk. 

He’s got legs today instead of a tail. Naturally, one cannot venture into town for coffee with a tail. You hope the coffee is worth it, you hope he’s not in pain. 

You strike up a conversation, and he is overjoyed to learn that the honey came from your farm, because he liked the glaze with salad, you see, it’s really universal, the way Gus makes it. His name is Elliott, and he’s a writer, and he’d only moved to town a few months ago. 

The old man you saw was Willy, he explains, sells fish, tackle and bait, not such a bad neighbour although, understandably, they have their differences. 

You ask if Elliott plans on leaving here some day. 

After all, he must have family and friends back in the ocean. 

“Initially that’s what I thought would happen. But I am not so sure anymore. I’ve met someone here, you see...”

This someone you haven’t introduced yourself to yet, and it’s a shame. Not too many people in this town, and you still haven’t met even half of them, because you’re so exhausted all the time. 

“What about you?” Elliott inquires pleasantly in his melodic voice. “Do you plan on heading back to the splendors and shining lights of the city one day?”

You shake your head. “Not going back.”

*

You buy some flour and homemade butter from Marnie. Upon learning that you’re making bread she gives you some sourdough for free. 

“You can keep the jar, too,” she says.

Maybe things are looking up. 

Upon returning home you find a large dead rat waiting for you. 

“No, it’s all yours, my friend,” you tell Tau. “Seems like everything is not that bad, after all.”

He nods, understanding, and proceeds to consume the rat on the front porch instead of the kitchen. Probably for a meal with a view. 

You make the dough, thinking how an oven should also be part of the end result you’re striving to achieve. For now you’ll have to ask to use the one at the Saloon. Emily told you that Gus feels a tad guilty about not paying you a lot (he isn’t Pierre, after all), so he’ll let you use it for free. 

You really don’t feel like working a lot today. Your head is already inside Friday night although the rest of your body isn’t. But you have to, there is no choice. It’s not like you can get a sick leave or take a day off here. As the dough rises, you go to check and clean the hives. The inhabitants of the two of them are unhurriedly doing their job, and some crawl on your sleeves but, otherwise, they ignore you. There’s a mutilated body of a yellow jacket wasp on the Thrifty Gals’ landing pad, the guard bees battled it, and prevailed, and one of them perished, its half-broken stinger still stuck in the intruder. You separate them and crush the remains of the wasp underfoot, yet the body of the heroic guard bee you bury carefully under a handful of soil. The Brigade is a tempest, though, and the landing pad is empty, not a single one of them died. You barely see anything but flashes of dark, because they are moving at the speed of sound, if not faster. Well, you’d be the last one to complain. 

The jars are getting filled again. 

You do need a vehicle. 

*

The soles of his black shoes is the first thing you see as you walk up to the house. Then, his legs clad in old jeans. Then, a line of his pale abdomen, bared between them and a slightly upturned shirt, the latter stained by motor oil. His face is hidden under the motorcycle. 

You don’t want to distract or bother him. 

It feels wrong, because Sebastian and everything he does is like one long sentence written in beautiful uninterrupted handwriting. Talking, distracting him while he’s hard at work would mean, dropping a fat blob of ink in the middle of it. 

You know he knows you’re there. You know he will address you right after the final dot is pressed into paper. So you wait. 

And you don’t mind the view. 

No more than a minute passes, and then he says hello. 

You explain your plea and promise to pay for gas.

“I would. I will. But there’s this roadblock.”

“Roadblock?”

“Yes. The mayor placed it a while ago.”

Then, you suppose, you should talk to the mayor. 

“Be careful when you do,” Sebastian says cryptically and then adds, “We’re still on for tomorrow, right?”

Yes, or you would go insane. And you don’t want that. 

*

There’s a cross drawn in a blue pencil or marker on the outer side of Sam’s palm. 

Your roommate immediately jumps up on the couch and curls on Sam’s lap, but the latter is twitchy, constantly in motion, so Tau moves to Sebastian’s lap instead, which proves to be the right thing to do for someone seeking a quality nap. 

The second disc is a bunch of short cartoons. They open with a catchy jingle, “I am Poppy, let’s be friends!” Each episode is no more than six minutes long, each is about Poppy, a toddler badger living with his mum and dad and big sister in a… house with a white picket fence? They’re completely anthropomorphic, they do all the things human families do except, well, they’re cartoon badgers. And each episode ends with a series of questions aimed at the target audience which, incidentally, is supposed to be two to five years old. What was the name of Poppy’s new friend at the creche? What did his mum cook for breakfast, was it pancakes, eggs or toast? Which color was the shirt that Poppy accidentally stained with yogurt, red, blue or green? 

“Red, it was red!” Sam yells. 

“It was blue,” Sebastian says calmly. 

After a pause and another round of the same jingle, Poppy reappears on the screen in his cute little shirt, stain gone. He waves, and the narrator declares, “It was blue! Like the skies!”

Like Sam’s eyes, you think. 

“Awww, bummer,” he mutters and smiles upon noticing you looking at him. He’s so close to you. You wish he were closer.

You wish you weren’t this greedy.

No, you don’t. 

Poppy is a wholesome little dude. But there’s only seven episodes, and then it’s over. For a while you discuss the adorable absurdity of it all, for instance the way Poppy’s family took him to… a zoo? And the zoo held other animals, but they didn’t have clothes on? 

“We’ve come upon a racist cartoon society,” Sebastian mutters, smirking a little. 

And how his babysitter was a bobcat, although bobcats are natural predators to honey badgers, but the babysitter’s name, incidentally, was Marnie, and she cooked some oatmeal with nuts and raisins for Poppy, and then let him watch… cartoons on TV. Now these cartoons were about a human family. 

“Mind blowing loop!” Sam declares, looking a little shocked upon realising it. 

Then he mentions how Vince would probably like them. Vince is his little brother, he explains. Sure, he’s not five anymore but still, if you all enjoyed it, he surely will, and unironically, right? You say that yes, he probably would. 

When you attempt to ask more about his family, though, Sam is evasive and suddenly changes the subject by admitting he’s hungry. 

“I can help with that.”

As you slice the bread, spread butter and buckwheat honey on it, Sam and Sebastian talk about the mysterious family that allegedly owned this small collection of movies before you. 

“So I guess they had a little kid, but that space movie, who was that for?”

“A weird and creepy uncle?” Sebastian suggests. 

“No, a nerd son who lives in a basement!”

“Uh huh.”

“And he identifies with Benji Threetentacles very strongly! They’re, like, kindred spirits!” 

“Shut up,” Sebastian answers amiably, with a smile. 

“Hey it’s still early, maybe we could hang out at the Saloon? Do you wanna?” 

You realise the question was addressed to you as you pull the kitchen chair away from the table and invite Sam to sit, which he immediately does. 

“Would love to.”

Dear God yes, yes, please. You don’t want this evening to end, and you were about to propose you try the third disc, but this is even better. This is not at the hovel. They might not mind, they might have even assured you that it’s nice and quiet here, but you’re still ashamed of it. 

“It’s probably crowded but… Sure,” agrees Sebastian, lazily scratching Tau behind the ear with the tip of his forefinger. 

“Nice. Let me eat this and we’ll go. Thanks, by the way. What is this?” 

“Just bread, butter and buckwheat honey.”

Just your initial goal, achieved. 

The open jar is still on the table.

Sam takes a bite. Then he chews, eyes open wide. In a few seconds he says, “Oh, f… God. Oh God this is good, you have to try this, Seb.” Then he proceeds to stuff the rest into his mouth voraciously and this time, his eyes are closed and he is making… sounds. 

You like the sounds that he is making very much. 

“I don’t really go for sweet stuff,” Sebastian says, but still carefully moves Tau and stands up, and approaches the table.

“Oh come on, just a little!” Sam picks a fat, almost solid drop off the edge of the jar and brings it to Sebastian’s lips, and even stubbornly pokes a little, beaming, until Sebastian sighs, gives up and sucks it off, barely looking.

“Yeah, it’s good,” he says a moment later. “Not too sweet.”

“Right?!” Sam turns to you. “Aren’t you gonna have some?” 

You can’t speak. He doesn’t seem to be waiting for your answer, because he does it all again, unprompted. Same finger. A drop. Your lips. Open. Warm. Honey. Heartbeat. Sam. 

Sam… 

You’re fading. 

Sam gets up and stretches. “I’m done, let’s go.”

*

On the way to the Saloon he throws his arms around your and Sebastian’s shoulders and warbles the Poppy jingle mostly mockingly, yet not a single note is out of tune. His singing voice is gentle and soothing. It, along with the scent of his skin, makes you think of soft cradles, heavy blankets and hugs. 

Sebastian was right. The Saloon is packed, and you don’t know most of these people. There’s something dark and slimy writhing beneath one of the tables next to Marnie, but you try not to look, not to sully the evening, as you are led to the empty side room, to the pool table. 

You’re not that bad at pool. You’ve played plenty at dive bars back in the city. 

But Sebastian wins the first game like it’s nothing. 

Sam procures a drink can from the vending machine, pops it open — it emits a short angry hiss — and takes several eager gulps, allowing you to take a good look at his white peach throat. Making your own mouth water.

Sam notices you staring. And interprets it in a guileless and innocent way. “You want some?”

You don’t want soda, you want his lips, you want to kiss and lick and nibble at his throat, you want this denim jacket and this shirt on the floor, you want your hands caressing his bare chest, clawing at his abdomen, you don’t want soda. Yet you accept the can with a polite nod. Sam’s fingers touch yours for a moment, sending a jolt through the entirety of you. One of them was in your mouth today. It was in Sebastian’s mouth, and then it was in your mouth, oh God. Did you maybe dream it?

Taking a sip, you wince slightly. It’s ice cold, and the sweetness is cloying, artificial, overwhelming and somehow sneakily sour, like it’s the evil twin of buckwheat honey. Yet you are suddenly overjoyed: not by it, but by the thought of Sam’s mouth having just pressed to the same opening. You give the can back to him, and Sam takes another big gulp right away. 

“So whaddaya think of our town so far?” he asks you as Sebastian re-racks.

What **do** you think? 

You think that, like any and all new beginnings, it’s capable of giving hope. You think that, on one hand, it’s just like any other small coastal settlement in the country: slightly neglected, slightly anxiety-ridden, downtrodden and dusty, but overall nice, because there’s nice people (and bees) living in it, too. Like Emily, or Marnie, or Clint, or Elliott. And Sam and Sebastian. These two make the town unique, they’re rare jewels in an industrial sized pile of coal. But, on the other, you still can’t shake off the feeling that there’s something evil in this town. Not just about it, in it. A tangible and pulsing blob of calamity which might be growing, spreading even now.

You find a compromise. “I like it here.” Because it’s still better than the city where evil wasn’t palpable, compact and localized somewhere beyond your field of vision, it was everywhere, in everything, around every corner, long having spread and turned into a morbid background. 

“Dunno, gets kinda boring at times,” Sam says and then his expression is suddenly changing to apprehensive. “Oh, I don’t mean right now! Right now everything’s cool!” He beams, and you battle vertigo for a second. 

Then Sam loudly announces that he needs the bathroom “like, right now!” and leaves. 

“He likes you,” Sebastian says all of a sudden. It’s these exact words dog owners say about their puppies, with an air of pride and possessiveness, to house guests and children of passersby. Look, he likes you, don’t be afraid, isn’t he such a sweet boy? Usually. Not this time, not from him. This one sounds different. Not an accusation, not a jab of jealousy, no tone of surprise. Simple stating of a simple fact. A fact that makes your heart do a somersault and the back of your neck to sear. 

“I like him, too.” This does not change Sebastian’s expression, but he nods. “And I like you, as well, Sebastian.” This one does. He lifts his head and stares into your eyes intently, still leaning on his cue, as on a spear. The gaze is very hard to hold, because it also leaves an impression of something capable of piercing. 

For a fraction of a moment you imagine how this exact gaze would feel along with Sebastian simultaneously fucking consciousness out of you, deep, slow and methodical, with his fingers squeezing the sides of your neck. You feel faint again from the thought, the brief image alone. And avert your eyes. But it’s too late, because your face is burning and he can surely see. This is the sweetest pain imaginable. 

“Mutual,” he whispers after another brief pause. One more somersault. 

Sam returns, beaming again and immediately reaching for his soda and a piece of chalk. 

Then Sebastian proceeds to mercilessly beat both of your sorry asses in a game of pool again. 

It’s magnificent. 

You play yet another game, and lose again, and then it’s time to go. 

“We should do this next Friday night, too,” Sam proposes. 

Sebastian doesn’t seem to mind. 

And you… well. 

Outside, Sebastian immediately lights up a cigarette, takes a long drag, waves goodbye and heads to the left. You see Sam to his house, which is, unfortunately, right across the square, and not through miles of forests and picturesque fields. 

As he hugs you goodbye you whisper, “Sam.” 

Just this, just his name. Not like a tip of the hat. Like a prayer. 

“It’s short for Samson, by the way,” he says. “But don’t tell anyone.” 

When the door shuts closed behind him, taking the last vestige of light with it, you think of how uncanny and, at the same time, completely inevitable and cosmic it was. For him to actually be named after the Sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading.  
> Drop me a line, please <3


	4. Chapter 4

Between your legs it's overflowing with honey and they feed, both of them. They feed on it and then they breed you on that old and narrow couch.

Inside, slowly, _slowly_ in unison, groaning, sweat, sliding, hands grasping, arms pressing, nails clawing, oh God please, not because you're a filthy whore that can and would take it without whining, what whining, you can barely breathe, all oxygen replaced by love, but because it's sweeter this way, rubbing against one another and in you, feeling every motion, so much closer, as close as possible, merge, deeper, meld, take it baby take it, dissolve. And because it rhymes, hive-survive-thrive, the truth rhymes. Except they won’t die after… You won’t let them. Right? 

Knock-knock-bang. 

“Hello? Are you there? Are you up?” 

You lovehate these dreams. You love them because they feel so real, because they’re paradise, because they’re heavenly clouds, because _you_ are loved in them. You hate them because you inevitably wake up to the alarm clock screeching, and watch and feel them evaporate, leaving you with nothing but a bitter realization that none of it was actually real and never will be. 

You turned the alarm off yesterday evening, anticipating one. But a visitor wakes you up at eight in the morning anyway. And it’s not even Emily, because Emily comes over for tea at at least half past nine when she does. Although the voice that invaded your dream was unmistakably that of a woman. 

You shuffle to the door, still in your pajamas, and open it. 

It’s Robin.

“Hi! So Sebby mentioned your roof is leaking.” It is. But you just dreamt of the aforementioned “Sebby” double barreling you along with his best friend, and there was also some disturbing metaphor in there that you’ve already forgotten although its aftertaste keeps prickling you. Either way it’s not easy to look right into her eyes and return her kindly smile. 

“Maybe a little,” you mutter. 

Robin places her wide palm over the handle of the axe she carries around in a large ornate holster attached to her belt. “I would like to fix it.” You’d like it to be fixed. But money is very tight. You’re not sure you should take her up on this offer. Yet the hesitation is probably reflecting on your face, because next she adds, “Free of charge.”

A cart filled with materials and tools stands waiting right behind her. She brought it all with her without any help but it’s no trouble, Robin assures you. See, there’s stairs and a slope and a nice shortcut leading from the back end of your property up the hill and right to 24 Mountain Road. It’s only a ten minute walk from here to her house. To Sebastian’s house. 

“I would also like to clean your chimney, so you could safely use the fireplace. Got a device for that right here. There’s surely a storm coming soon, electricity might go out again.”

“I… I am grateful. Very much so,” you manage. 

Robin nods and rolls up her sleeves. “We small town folk gotta support each other,” she says. “Also, frankly, that money you’ve given me for the bathroom… You deserve some complimentary service.”

Alright then. 

There was a drizzle in the night, your buckwheat has enough water for now. Using the kitchenette is out of the question because that’s exactly where the roof is leaking into, so you use the bathroom, brush your teeth and get busy with the bees since you’re too sore and sleepy for raking and tilling, there’s nothing else productive to do and watching TV while waiting is not an option. Not in the mood for arguments, too. 

Tau is finishing up his breakfast on the porch. It’s not a partridge. Actually you have no idea what he’s having today and you don’t stare. The veil makes it easier not to stare and not to see clearly. He joins you in a minute, treading after you as if he was a dog. 

There’s something different today. Takes you a few minutes to figure it out while you check and lift and clean and swipe… Drones pass away after mating with the queen, usually mid-flight. They’re small to begin with and they die even more frail and weightless, and fall down, and the wind sweeps them off into the grass, sometimes even before they reach the ground. Today is a still day, weather-wise. Windless, and you’ve thoroughly weeded and even raked the area around the hives days prior, aiming to pave it someday soon. And multiple tiny bodies pepper the ground. They did not have to fly far before succeeding. 

You gaze upon the hives once more and sigh. It's the most brutal type of matriarchy in there. Drones breed her and die right after. If they don’t do their job they are ejected by workers when it comes fall, and die of exposure, unneeded and unmourned. But if they succeed, they’re still goners. Lose-lose. Do they die happy? Do they perish in throes of passion and ecstasy? Or in agonizing pain, while their tiny abdomens get ripped open and hollowed out?

You don’t know. 

You’re not sure you want to know. 

You lift the veil over your head. Tau is still following you around. He pokes one of the bodies. He doesn’t eat it because you asked him not to, although to him these are probably like delicious crispy morsels of protein kettle corn. Also they’re stingless. And already dead. But you asked him not to, and he remembers. 

Perhaps you should designate an area as a cemetery for them. Not too big, one by one and a half feet will do. Stones around it or something. 

Or maybe you should just accept that such is life and that everything joins the stardew either way, sooner or later. No. No, a cemetery. 

*

Your roof is fixed, your chimney is no longer obstructed, Emily came over and brought a decommissioned bar stool for you to keep. It’s much less rickety than your two kitchen chairs. 

“Yes, I am quite fond of him,” Robin says to Emily, as the latter blows on her mug of tea. “Sam is openly affectionate, physical and tactile with everyone, such a pure and sincere boy. Sebby is, er, different in this regard. I’m glad they’re friends.” She turns to you. “I’m glad you’re trying to make friends with him, as well. I know it’s probably very hard.”

Huh?..

“Sebastian is just shy,” Emily offers amiably. 

Robin shakes her head and purses her weather-beaten lips. “Shy is one thing, sitting in his basement till dawn and going for days with no human interactions and without so much as a single ray of sunlight, and saying that you’re fine like this, is quite another.”

You want to tell her that Sebastian gets plenty of sunlight, you want to ask how the fuck she is not able to identify the **blinding** source of it, seeing how she just talked about said source, just now, but instead you silently sip your own tea and listen to them compliment the honey and keep on talking about their families.

“...and hasn’t hugged his own sister since he was around seven. Not once!”

This is weird. Back in the city an expert, like a plumber or an electrician, would come over, do his job, take the money and leave. He would not ask about your endeavours or tell you of his family. He would not complain. He would not stay for tea or coffee even if your problem was so miniscule that he didn’t charge you. 

You guess that this actually is the payment here: tea and gossip. Killing boredom in any way you can. Small town. Everyone knows everything about everyone. It’s a tradition, and there’s probably no opting out if you want to blend in with _everybody._ So do you? 

*

“Trim” is the word, you think. Or “neat”. 

This is a neat house. Spacious and well cared for. But without excesses: no marble columns, no intricate stucco molding. Curtains are nice. The windows, walls and the front porch are all impeccably clean. Whitewash. Pretty flower beds. 

The welcome mat says: “No need to knock! We know you’re here! Arf arf!”

You wipe the soles of your boots on it and then immediately feel bad for sullying it. You’ve come to terms that any and all footwear you put on will stay permanently dirty in this town, but the mat was so clean before you came over. It was so neat. 

There is no barking, so you do knock. There’s still no barking, but someone croons in a falsetto, “Just a se-eeco-ond!” 

Finally, after quite a while, he opens the door, invites you in and informs you that there is no need to take your shoes off, he has to clean the floors in the afternoon anyway, it’s no trouble. You see no dogs. You decide not to ask. 

The mayor’s house is tastefully cluttered on the inside. Vases and trinkets, old photographs in frames, embroidered cushions, embroidered napkins, a colossal grandfather clock. 

A tea set meant for at least four people on the dining table, the latter covered by a cloth, also embroidered. Is this lace? A cake stand with tiny canapes and biscuits. They look scrumptious… Is that fresh cucumber slices with cream cheese and smoked salmon? 

“Please, take a seat! I was just about to have me a little luncheon, would love for you to join me!”

You sit down at one of the cushioned dining chairs, carefully, so as not to stain the tablecloth. 

Not like you’re that dirty… It’s just your clothes. But everything around here is so impeccably clean. Yes, a washing machine and a dryer are on the list of things you want to get, but that’s way away. You own a metal washtub, it’ll have to do for now. Country life, work with your hands, all this.

“I came to ask about the roadblock.”

“Please help yourself!” the mayor says, courteously pouring you tea. 

After getting an additional permission you take a bite out of a shortbread biscuit. It is, in fact, scrumptious, and you struggle to behave in a cultured and polite way and not to stuff it all in your mouth in one go. You want the roadblock removed, after all. 

“I need to venture out of town in that direction, is there any chance you would...”

“Why would you want out?” he interrupts pleasantly. 

“Just for a little while, a few hours, I...” You fix your eyes upon the wall to your left, the one you haven’t paid attention to before. It’s adorned with antlers, a badger head (looks a lot like Poppy’s dignified father), and a multitude of cases with pierced butterflies. There must be at least eighteen of them. Pre-dead. Pre-pierced. You turn back to the mayor. Something is happening to him. It’s like his face along with his well-groomed mustache, his bald spot that he combed some hairs over, his wrinkled eyes, his fluffy bathrobe and slippers, had all actually been painted on a used canvas, over something else, God, there was something else on it originally, something very different, and now rain is beating on the surface and slowly washing off the paint. 

Your fight or flight response kicks in immediately and you jump up and take a step back, and thank God for that. Because the upper layer is almost gone. 

The inner part was compressed under it, and now it’s spreading. Growing. Writhing. There is something black oozing out of it, and it slithers up and back and obscures the window. You’re wheezing through your teeth. You’re trying to meld with the front wall. The thing is as high as the ceiling now and as black as nothing in the universe has any right to be. It smells like an open grave. 

for all the creatures great and small will come to hang upon my wall I’ll stab them true right through the head and here they’ll stay so neat and dead

You fumble for the door handle, you manage to turn it although your hands are shaking, and nearly fall out of the room and the house. Not a house. This is not a house, it’s a lair. And then you turn and you run. Run. Dear Yoba almighty, have mercy on me, a sinner. You run until you bump into something with a painful thud, and the something umphs, and throws its arms around you, catching you, locking you in, and you recognize the scent, and you immediately start sobbing.

“Heey, honey girl, what’s wrong?”

It takes you a while but you manage to inhale enough air to speak.

“The mayor, he… He…”

You’re not very successful or eloquent at this time. Also, “he” what? What was that thing, anyway?.. 

...please don’t let me go. I want these arms around me forever. 

“Yeah, he’s a nasty dude,” Sam says, and then absent-mindedly wipes a tear off your cheek. “Like, this one time...” 

He keeps on talking, one of his hands still on your shoulder, about how the mayor is out to get him or something, because on one occasion when Sam was just trying to do a kickflip in front of Emily and Haley’s house, the mayor all but hurled lightnings and flower pots at him, he was so angry. And also how Sam pulled just this tiny little prank, threw a bunch of sardines into the potluck soup, nothing that horrible, not like it was manure, but then he got fifty hours of community service and a telling to his mum, and the latter was… 

As he speaks you feel him drawing pain and fear out of you, pulling it like venom from a wound. 

And he keeps on touching you, he keeps his hand on your shoulder still, and you feel a desperate urge to rub your cheek against it, but you suddenly remember what Robin told you mere hours ago. A reminder. He’s like this with everyone. And you knew that already. It’s his native language, and that’s all there is. 

Do you even have a right? Won’t you poison the sunlight? This needs to end. You don’t see how, but you need to end this, you need to stop feeling it, you must. Otherwise it will only get worse, otherwise the pain will be so much greater when, inevitably… 

“...so I was just headed to work and... bam, you!.. heh.”

Now you feel guilty for keeping him, as well. “I’m sorry, you’re probably going to be late...”

“Eh.” He shrugs. “I’m kinda always late to everywhere when I’m alone.”

You look up into his eyes, and he holds your gaze without any effort, smiling a little, to the left. Dear God, you want to kiss him so desperately. But no, you do not have a right, and you do not have a single chance. 

“Can’t wait till Friday, by the way,” he murmurs all of a sudden. Quiet. 

You politely answer that yes, you are looking forward to it as well. You also have no right to say how you really feel about it, because it would mostly be shouted out and not just said. 

Then there’s huffing and muffled stomps on the road behind you. The mayor, still in his slippers but now wearing a shirt and pants (fake), grasping his heart, is running after you and waving his hand. He’s wearing the outer layer again… 

You instinctively step in front of Sam to shield him from the monstrosity. 

Sam, though, grabs your wrist, pulls you back by it and instead steps in front of you the very next second.

“I apologize, my dear, I know this may seem morbid to some people! My trophy wall, that is!” the impostor says, panting heavily. “I was just about to tell you that the road work will be… Oof… Hold on just a second...” He pretends to have an ailment, pretends to hyperventilate. “It will be finished by Tuesday, and then you can use it safely.”

He pretends to huff some more and leaves. 

“Yeah, is Seb taking you to Littlehampton?” You have no idea where you’re actually going. Just… down the coast to the east, until you find what Emily suggested you needed to find. But you nod. “Heard about that. Good luck with the whole organic store thingie. Bring me something nice, maybe?”

You’d bring him the universe on a silver platter if you could. 

“What would you like?”

He shrugs, grinning. “Like a candy bar. I love the ones with maple syrup.”

Yes, you love those best, too. 

You also love Sam, but this has to end. 

*

He’s screwed a trunk onto his motorcycle. It’s just a rear black box, but it looks sturdy and it fits all the jars neatly inside. 

“Hop on,” Sebastian says when you’re done stuffing them in and putting on a helmet. You were hoping it’d smell like Sebastian, but it just smells like a bike helmet. 

You hesitate. You remember something else Robin told you, days ago now, and feel compelled to ask, “Do I hold on to the handles or...”

Maybe he’s just not comfortable with prolonged touch, and you have no right to force him into it. 

“To me. And, preferably, tight.”

And that’s what you do. 

No, it’s not comfortable. No, it’s not as romantic as you imagined it to be. It’s terrifying, mostly because you’re scared to hold on too tight, and there’s a knot in your chest that just won’t untangle. Also, you’re slightly terrified of the fact that underneath his baggy clothing Sebastian is actually very skinny. Very. Skinny. How exactly he manages to rein this beast in, you have no idea, but he does it, and quite well. But you can’t even enjoy the touch you’re starved for, because it’s not just ‘touch’, it’s ‘attempting to hold on for dear life and being too insecure to do it properly’.

The road is decent. So is the speed. You pass a village, then another, then stop at a gas station, then finally get to this precise Littlehampton. It’s a small coastal resort. Pretty. And trim and neat. It stands trapped in a nervous inhale, awaiting guests, because the tourist season is about to start. 

And it has quite a lot of fancy shops, including the one that sells local produce all pre-packaged in fancy identical containers with a bright logo. 

Unprompted, Sebastian goes to check their actual price tags for honey and copy them onto a piece of paper, and then sneakily passes it to you as you wait for the manager. 

“Thanks,” you mutter, and he nods back mostly with his eyelashes. 

Whoah, yeah, Gus has _really_ been underpaying you. Even if they agree to give you half of their retail price (you’re counting on more, of course, because it’s not just some honey, it’s buckwheat honey, and it’s the best type in the world), it’d be more than Gus was paying. It’s hard to believe honey actually costs so much. But… not like you’ve been buying or eating it a lot back in the city. 

The manager comes, listens to you speak, tries a spoonful, then calls someone else over to try another spoonful, then they are shaking your hand and asking for your ID to immediately draft a contract, and also you need to discuss the time when their courier should arrive to pick it all up and wow, amazing, Pelican produce really is the best, yes it totally is, Matt, wow. You half-listen, half-look and half-answer, because you keep on throwing glances towards Sebastian. An attractive girl wearing the store uniform is talking to him. She’s smiling, wrapping a strand of her curly hair around her finger as she speaks. Next she throws her gorgeous mane back over her shoulder, reaches for that small notebook he’s still holding in his hand along with the pen, writes on the upper sheet, gives the notebook back and makes a recognizable gesture with her thumb and pinky, “call me”. 

Figures. You sigh and force yourself to engage the manager in earnest, and thank him for his trust and patronage, and promise that neither of you will regret this deal. There is a contract, then honey is taken away from you with a promise that it shall be repackaged and all the jars shall be returned to you by the courier, then there is a considerable amount of cash (more than half!), then you buy a few candy bars, the ones with maple syrup, then you head out. 

Outside, Sebastian tears the upper sheet of paper out of his notebook and throws it into a waste bin. 

“You should get a phone,” he says. “There’s a landline on the property.” 

Maybe you feel like crying. Maybe you actually will do the latter when you put on the helmet. 

“Really?”

“Yes. I noticed the wires.” This way you wouldn’t need to go to the post office every time. This way… this way people could actually call _you_ , as well. 

“Right. I’ll put it on my list,” you say, patting the pocket with the cash. 

Sebastian chuckles a little. Just a tad. 

“And don’t be scared to hold on tighter,” he adds.

*

It’s Friday night, and Sam proposed you go to the Saloon first. You sit in a booth, Emily brings a large pizza over and he scarfs it down with gusto, talking about the band and how it needs a drummer for this exemplary synth-pop sound that has been granted a second life now, but he can’t find one.

There are no drummers in this town, Sebastian remarks. 

“I’m a drummer,” you blurt out, and immediately start berating yourself silently because, strictly speaking, that’s not true. Sure, your sense of rhythm is nearly flawless, at least according to your music teacher, and you were a percussionist in your school’s marching band, but does that even count? Also you don’t own a drum set, which you come clean about, not looking at him, already feeling guilty and stupid. 

“Oh f… my God, then you totally need to get one!” Sam declares, leaning forward. 

You need to get a lot of things. A lot of money is the first on the list of things you need to get. 

But Sam is so enthused by this idea now, and Sebastian doesn’t seem to mind it either, that you mentally move “drum set” up to the top ten. Screw it, top five. Sam needs a drummer, Sam is getting a drummer. Sam would still get the whole world if he asked you for it. 

Then you call yourself a bad word yet again silently. Didn’t you tell yourself this needs to stop?

*

The movie on the third disc is, indeed, foreign. Not Gotoro foreign. Hallotes foreign (ouch, they’re way too refined there) and equipped with subtitles, sure. Except they’re gibberish. 

Two men, allegedly artists, judging by their surroundings, meet in a spacious studio, smoke like chimney pipes and discuss… something. According to subtitles one says, for instance, ‘I do never! Admit to staircase[4* very alone.’

And the younger one answers, nodding, ‘These questions are birthday basements.’

Sam mouths the next line of subtitles which, incidentally, says, ‘How are he to your coat;>’ and narrows his eyes. “This a joke?”

“Most likely it’s laziness,” replies Sebastian. 

“Huh?”

Meanwhile, a beautiful woman makes her entrance and proclaims something translated as, “Voted? We pulse!H)G your truism.”

Sebastian explains almost enthusiastically, you’ve never heard him speak so much and for so long. “It’s likely a bootleg, and they used Poromot. It’s quite new and buggy. Probably loaded up all of the dialogue lines in one go, converted, which took maybe an hour or two, if not more, got restless, attached without checking if there was a persisting encoding error. And there was, and the program compensated, in a way. So the results of it we are currently...” He trails off and waves vaguely towards the screen. 

Sam nods. “Got it, they were too lazy to translate it themselves and relied on a computer.” 

“Pretty much.”

You offer, “Want to try a different one?”

The woman is now naked, striking a pose, motionless. So she’s a model and they are, in fact, artists. She is… uhm… exceptionally… busty. 

“Nah, I’m good,” Sam whimpers, two octaves higher than usual. 

Sebastian says nothing. 

The plot is a mystery to you. There are three main characters, and the men constantly have heated discussions, and appear to be in unending rivalry with each other. Is it related to their profession or are they maybe siblings? They also smoke, eat caviar, and paint the woman clothed in period wear sitting in front of various backgrounds, or naked, standing on a small platform elevated around a thin column. Two or three montages of the painting process, mercifully, have no dialogue, and Sebastian compliments the music. Sam says he doesn’t mind the soundtrack either. 

The woman, who is called either Espfher, or Athmer, or j?#3ut, also goes on walks in parks with one of the men or other, they wear gloves, long coats and hats, and probably have meaningful conversations but all you see is, essentially: “9vast entrepreneurial length! Amicably beaver.” - “No, not from grandmother.”

“This last one was almost coherent,” Sebastian mutters. 

All in all, the movie is very slow and boring although aesthetically pleasing to the eye and ear. There is no action. The fights between artists are entirely verbal. Sam is yawning and taking breaks from looking at the screen, first to pet Tau, then to get some water to chase an antihistamine pill, then to check his reflection in an aluminum pan and make sure his hair is still spiky... Sebastian stays put and motionless, calmly watching, but you yawn, too, once or twice. Saved from completely losing interest by the colorful palette and, paradoxically, these same incoherent subtitles. It’s not like they’re comedy gold as the first movie was. But they are certainly entertaining at times. However the plot, if there even is one, still remains a mystery. 

It’s been nearly one and a half hours, surely the movie is about to end. You and Sam slice half a loaf of bread, slather it in butter and buckwheat honey and proceed to eat in front of the TV, lazily watching another montage. Sebastian accepts one thin slice, too, but shakes his head when asked if he wants more. 

“Okay, I got it, they are planning to have an exhibit,” Sam says all of a sudden, licking the stray drops of honey and butter off his fingers. The last maple bar is still sticking out of his jacket pocket, stashed for later. “And they’re, like, arguing who gets the best spots.”

Sebastian narrows his eyes. “What makes you think so?”

Sam shrugs. “I mean there’s gotta be a point to this, right? A destination and all.” Then he turns to look at you and catches you staring again. “What?”

There’s a drop of honey right below his lower lip, that’s what. And you can’t help it because, maybe, your fingers are not your own at the moment. You reach for it, and you wipe it off, and you bring it to your mouth. 

“Thanks,” he says. And smiles, looking right into your eyes again. God damn it. God fucking damn it, this has to stop, this has to—

And then that scene comes round. You’ve missed the very beginning and you don’t know how, precisely, it is that, once you turn back to the screen, the older man is fucking the woman from behind while she’s still standing on the same elevated platform, back arched, holding on to the column with both hands. 

“Uhm...”

The scene is short. It’s not what’s actually shown, it’s what’s omitted that has you entranced. 

Sam giggles nervously. “Did that other guy step away to give them space or paint them or something? He was just there.” 

You and Sebastian exchange a look. You understand what's going on, but Sam doesn't, he obviously doesn’t notice an extra hand on the actress’s hip where there were no hands before.

And the next subtitle is terrifyingly comprehensive all of a sudden. “A-ah yes lick my balls as I fuck her ass. Now lick her flower, too.”

Sam freezes. He stops breathing. His leg stops bouncing. 

It should be awkward, and it is, but it's other things as well.

Your mouth is watering, your throat is dry. You want to look away, you can’t. 

She moans loudly. And convincingly. You have to remind yourself that they’re not really having sex, it’s fake, they’re just actors. 

Then it’s the three of them moving together in the background as the camera focuses on one of the paintings (is it the very first one?). They’re blurred but you can guess what's happening.

You can guess. 

Even Sam guesses, you think. 

His fingers twitch a little. 

Then the scene ends abruptly, next they’re all standing fully clothed beside the sealed front door of the studio, stare at each other with disdain and walk away in three different directions, the camera pans out to show the city, and the movie ends. 

“Well, that was...” you mutter helplessly. 

“Yeah,” Sam says. 

Sebastian, stoic as he is, excuses himself and goes out to smoke on the porch, Sam darts to the bathroom. For a bit you think you know what he’s doing there. You saw the bulge. You didn’t want to see it but you did. And you wish he’d let you help. Then you mentally slap yourself for thinking it, then he emerges surprisingly fast, in seconds, his denim jacket buttoned up at the bottom. 

For a moment you’re horrified that this is it. That this was too awkward, and there won’t be a fourth movie night. 

But on the porch Sam says, “Watch another one next Friday?”

You swallow relief and nod. 

“Sure,” Sebastian says. “Saloon at six?”

“Saloon at six. Oh, and I was thinking… On Wednesday, wanna check out the old mines together?”

*

...and it’s not her, it’s you, and it’s Sam’s hand on your hip, the rest of him hidden from view, but you can feel what he’s doing, and when you can’t, Sebastian can feel it, and he groans, and it’s Sebastian mercilessly ramming your ass from behind and...

You wake up in the middle of the night and realize that maybe this time is different. This time it’s not just your dream. They’re dreaming the same one. 

No. That’s not how things work. Thinking it true, thinking it possible would mean that you’ve gone insane.


End file.
